


Just Like The Wolf Before He Bites

by whoknows



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Surprise Werewolves, nuzzling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 16:57:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6432745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whoknows/pseuds/whoknows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s loud, Louis is, and that’s far from unusual for him, but the volume of it still has Harry pulling back the curtain. There’s a half-formed thought in the back of his brain about telling Louis off, because it’s fucking half three in the morning, but then.</p>
<p>But then Harry’s eyes get stuck on the soft glint of Louis’ stubble in the light, and he’s making his way across the room before he even realizes it.</p>
<p>Louis, for his part, just tips his chin up to give Harry space and keeps talking, waving the joint in his hand around for emphasis. He doesn’t even bother to greet Harry, going on with his story to his semi-rapt audience, just settles a hand in between Harry’s shoulder blades and pushes him down firmly.</p>
<p>Harry just. Relaxes. His eyes slip closed, pushing his entire face into that spot underneath Louis’ chin, where his hair is still growing, neat and prickly. The scent of Louis’ cologne drifts into Harry’s nose, light and fresh, and it’s calming. Comforting. His breathing syncs up with Louis’ quickly, and Harry feels so much better than he had five minutes ago he almost wants to cry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Like The Wolf Before He Bites

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a very self-indulgent fluffy little story that has no real point.

Harry’s beyond tired. Beyond exhausted. It’s more like _fatigued_ , this feeling crawling up his belly and through his chest, threatening to explode straight out of his throat. His eyes are red-rimmed with his lack of sleep, hair long since tangled into knots, clothes probably stained and dirty - he honestly doesn’t even know when the last time he changed was. Or showered.

A shower would sound good right now, except all he can think about is sleeping for the next five years straight. Sleep is definitely going to win out over the shower, especially when it’s a cramped tour bus shower that doesn’t have reliable hot water.

His bunk is calling his name, inviting him to land face first in the tangled sheets and not even bother to pull his feet up with him before he passes out, and he would love to do that, he really would, except Louis’ voice is drifting through the narrow hallway, underneath the thin curtain separating the lounge from the bunks.

He’s loud, Louis is, and that’s far from unusual for him, but the volume of it still has Harry pulling back the curtain. There’s a half-formed thought in the back of his brain about telling Louis off, because it’s fucking half three in the morning, but then.

But then Harry’s eyes get stuck on the soft glint of Louis’ stubble in the light, and he’s making his way across the room before he even realizes it.

Louis, for his part, just tips his chin up to give Harry space and keeps talking, waving the joint in his hand around for emphasis. He doesn’t even bother to greet Harry, going on with his story to his semi-rapt audience, just settles a hand in between Harry’s shoulder blades and pushes him down firmly.

Harry just. Relaxes. His eyes slip closed, pushing his entire face into that spot underneath Louis’ chin, where his hair is still growing, neat and prickly. The scent of Louis’ cologne drifts into Harry’s nose, light and fresh, and it’s calming. Comforting. His breathing syncs up with Louis’ quickly, and Harry feels so much better than he had five minutes ago he almost wants to cry.

“Alright?” Louis asks, tugging gently at a strand of Harry’s hair on the nape of his neck, presumably so Harry will know he’s talking to him. Harry nods into Louis’ throat, not bothering to reply, brings his feet up onto the couch with him, and falls asleep like that.

With his entire face still pressed into Louis’ throat.

It’s not as weird as it sounds.

 

Being in L.A. sucks sometimes. Don’t get him wrong, Harry likes it well enough, and he especially likes the gorgeous weather, but it’s very far away from his family and a lot of his friends. It’s home away from home but it will never actually _be_ home.

That being said, Harry is unbearably relieved to have a house in L.A. that he can stay in when they hit the western section of the US leg of the tour. Sleeping in a bed that actually belongs to him will always beat sleeping in a hotel room bed, even if it is only for two days. Two days is better than no days, after all.

Plus he’s got more than enough room to put up all the boys for those two nights, so it’s kind of like hosting a sleep-over. A loud, rambunctious sleep-over but a sleep-over nonetheless.

It’s almost four in the morning, and they should have gone to sleep hours ago as they have an interview at eleven. Louis is already asleep, curled up on a couch with his legs pulled up to his chest and hood tugged down as low as it can get over his face, Zayn’s nearly there with him, and Liam and Niall are still talking in low voices but they’re fading, too. Clearly it’s time for bed for all of them.

Harry would love to let them all sleep where they are, he really would, but that’s not in his best interests. Doing that would inevitably lead to pranks in the morning, which would lead to pranks in the afternoon, which would lead to pranks in the evening, which would lead to everyone’s toothpaste being replaced with numbing gel. It’s a lose-lose situation, really. The only solution is to get everyone into a bed.

He starts with Liam. Once Liam gets going he’ll do all the work of getting Zayn up, which is the main problem, leaving Niall to head off by himself and Harry to deal with Louis. It’s their routine by now and it works for them.

While Liam is trying to get Zayn up, Harry kneels beside Louis and pushes the hood away from his face. “Lou,” he says. “Time for bed.”

Louis doesn’t move. Harry rubs his thumb across his cheek, trying to coax his eyes open. “Don’t you wanna sleep in a bed?” 

The thing is, Louis isn’t actually asleep. Harry can tell by how still he’s holding himself. When he’s actually asleep he moves around, shifts. He’s not a still sleeper. Him holding himself still right now means he’s just pretending to be asleep because he wants Harry to either leave him alone or carry him to a bed.

It’s not hard to tell that it’s the second one. Unlike Harry, Louis hates sleeping anywhere that isn’t a bed. 

“Alright,” Harry says, standing up and cracking his back. “I’ll just let you sleep here, then. See you in the morning.”

He makes a show of walking away, watching over his shoulder to see if Louis moves or opens his eyes. He doesn’t. Dammit.

“Goodnight,” he calls, pausing in the doorway. Still no reaction. He stands there for a few more seconds before he huffs out a sigh and returns to the couch, bending down to slip his arms underneath Louis’ back and thighs. “You’re lucky I care about you and don’t want your back to hurt in the morning.”

He’s pretty sure that he sees the curve of Louis’ smile as he picks him up, but they’re really too close to be able to tell for sure. It doesn’t matter, though, not now that Harry has lost. Louis isn’t heavy in his arms, and he squirms around until he’s in a position that makes it easy to carry him. Harry rolls his eyes at the sudden movement and smiles regardless, taking the stairs carefully, avoiding bashing Louis’ head against the railing.

It’s really no choice as to where he takes Louis. Harry’s tired and he doesn’t want to waste another second being awake, so he shoulders the door to his own room open, letting it stay that way before he crosses the floor to get Louis onto the bed. He has to put him on top of the blankets instead of underneath, but that’s okay. Louis is still wearing his jeans anyway, so it’s not like he’s going to be the most comfortable he’s ever been. Harry has more important things to do then strip him out of his clothes and get him underneath the blankets.

The soft reddish brown glint of Louis’ beard has been calling to him for the past three hours. The only reason Harry hasn’t given in to the temptation is because they’ve been busy, laughing and cooking and eating as a group, and that’s always a nice way to pass the time.

Not as nice as the scratch of Louis’ stubble against his jaw, though, and that’s what Harry really wants right now. He climbs over Louis carefully, not bothering to go around to the other side of the bed, and lies down beside him, curling around him and pressing his mouth against the underside of Louis’ jaw.

“Mm,” Louis hums, letting his head fall back to give Harry more space. He’s not awake, not really, obliging even in his sleep. It’s so nice, soft and sharp at the same time, and Harry’s already halfway to sleep. Louis’ stubble smells like tea from when he was laughing too hard and trying to drink at the same time a few hours ago, and the scent is soothing, relaxing. Harry kind of wants to let his tongue dart out and lick the spot where the tea-scent is the heaviest, see if it still tastes of it, but he doesn’t. That would probably be too weird, even for Harry’s standards.

Still thinking about the taste of tea on Louis’ skin, Harry drifts off into sleep. It’s really very easy.

 

“Lou,” Harry calls, ducking into the green room with a frown on his face. He’s misplaced his phone yet again, and by _misplaced_ he means that it’s probably tucked away in Louis’ back pocket.

Louis has a terrible habit of ‘borrowing’ Harry’s phone when he’s run out of lives for _Tsum Tsum_ on his own.

He isn’t in the green room, though. Harry frowns some more, barging into the bathroom, expecting to find it empty but checking just in case.

It’s not empty. Louis is there, shirtless and examining his face in the mirror.

His naked face.

Harry practically skids to a stop, frown deepening to an almost impossible degree. “What did you _do_?”

Louis frowns back at him in the mirror, rubbing a hand over his newly soft cheek. “What do you mean?”

This is probably none of Harry’s business. He can’t help the disappointment crashing through his body, though. “You shaved.”

“Yeah?” Louis asks, still rubbing at his cheek. “The beard was starting to get itchy. What, you miss it or something?”

No. It would be weird if Harry missed Louis’ beard. It’s not on his face, after all, he has no reason to be missing it. He shrugs, wanders over to join Louis at the sink. “Nah. Just thought it suited you, s’all.” Reaches out to rub at Louis’ cheek as well, smooth skin under his fingers coming almost as a shock even though it shouldn’t be.

Louis screeches and slaps his hand away, and that starts a fight that Harry is absolutely ashamed to admit he loses.

 

Something prickles at the back of Harry’s head for the rest of the night, all throughout the show and the shenanigans that ensue afterwards. It isn’t until he’s safely in his own bunk on the bus, staring up at the underside of Niall’s that he really starts to think about why it had felt so strange to touch Louis’ skin without the rough prickle of his stubble.

He doesn’t get a chance to answer his own question before Louis is elbowing his way into Harry’s bunk, phone in hand. He pulls the curtain closed after himself, a pretty good indication that he intends to sleep here.

Harry doesn’t mind. He wiggles over, makes space.

“H,” Louis whispers, struggling to get underneath the blanket. He’s not being as quiet as the other boys would probably like, but Harry doesn’t point that out. Doesn’t mind the loudness of Louis’ voice in his ear.

“Yeah,” Harry whispers back - an actual whisper, because he knows how to use his indoor voice. Unlike somebody.

“I’m gonna tell you a secret,” Louis says, finally getting comfortable and lying still, heat of him so nice next to Harry. “My throat’s still gonna smell the same, no matter how many times I shave my beard off.”

Harry groans, rolling onto his side, away from Louis. Doesn’t answer.

The day Louis takes no answer as the kind of answer he’ll accept is the day he stops dumping confetti in Harry’s shoes randomly, though. Instead of giving up, he climbs on top of Harry, all stubborn, heavy weight, until he can lay his throat right over Harry’s mouth and nose. 

“Go on, then,” Louis says patiently. As patiently as he can ever manage, anyway. “Gimme a good sniff, then, make sure I still smell the same.”

Harry groans again. Louis isn’t going to give up until he does it, he knows, and the longer Harry resists the more annoying he’s going to get about it. So Harry obliges, inhaling deep, and then bites down on the nearest mouth of flesh.

Because Louis can’t _always_ get his way.

“Harry!” Louis shrieks, absolutely no regard for the people who are currently sleeping. Clearly Harry has to do all the work in shutting him up, so he wraps his arms around Louis’ back and rolls them over so he’s on top, puts his face back against the underside of Louis’ jaw.

He really doesn’t smell any different. Harry still kind of misses the scratch of his stubble.

“Go to sleep,” he says, pecking a kiss against the spot he bit. Louis grumbles a bit, but he does.

Win.

 

Tonight’s a hotel night. It doesn’t sound like a big deal - a hotel is just a hotel, after all. Sleeping in a real bed will always beat sleeping in a cramped tour bus bunk, though, and touring America usually means that hotel nights are hard to come by.

Basically, hotel nights are awesome. A big, giant bed all to himself, room service and a full mini-bar? What’s not to love about that?

Or it would be awesome, anyway, if there wasn’t an itch underneath Harry’s skin that he can’t figure out how to scratch. He feels tired, but more than that he feels bored. In need of entertainment.

There’s really only one place to find entertainment at one in the morning when he’s not allowed to leave hotel property - or inclined to, really. Harry rolls out of bed and gets himself into the lift, down into the parking lot, and back onto the bus.

The lounge in the back of the bus is hazy with smoke. The back of Harry’s throat itches, and he resists the urge to cough. Louis and Zayn are playing cards, some kind of game that looks made up, if Harry’s being honest. The lights are turned down low, music playing in the background, and there’s a few of the crew crowded into the room as well, but Harry’s never met a space he couldn’t wiggle into.

“I call,” Zayn says, staring Louis down over his hand of cards. Louis wiggles his eyebrows at him, taking a hit off the joint in between his fingers.

Weed sounds pretty good, actually. Harry makes his way messily over the tangle of limbs on the floor, until he’s reached Louis’ side and he can worm himself into the tiny sliver of space there, half his arse hanging off the couch entirely as he reaches out to pluck the joint out of Louis’ hand.

“You call? Well in that case I _raise_ ,” Louis says triumphantly, and if Harry didn’t know any better he would think they’re playing poker.

As far as Harry knows, poker isn’t played with a hand of fourteen cards each, though. He takes an absent drag off the joint and peers over Louis’ shoulder at his cards, nodding sagely as though he has any idea what the hell they’re playing. “He’s got a good hand, Z. You better fold.”

Louis turns his head a little, light glinting off his face in a way that only serves to draw attention to his beard. “You know he’s going to take all my money now,” he whispers into Harry’s ear, and Harry’s only had a single drag so far but he already feels high. 

So high that he starts giggling when Louis’ scruff rubs across his lips. “I’ll spot you,” he whispers back, tucking his fingers down the neck of Louis’ shirt as he turns back to his game.

Louis and Zayn keep playing. Harry tries his very best to put a straight face on, but it’s really hard to pay attention when the room is so smokey and Louis’ fingers are all spread out over his cards like that. And Louis smells like soap, clean scent of him almost paradoxical to the scent of the weed hanging thick in the air, making it all but impossible to concentrate on the game.

Instead he rests his head on Louis’ shoulder, eyes slipping almost all the way shut. From this angle practically all he can see is the super soft red brown glint of Louis’ beard, and it’s so nice. So calming. So relaxing.

Harry’s asleep before he knows it.

 

He wakes up in the morning with beard burn all over his cheeks and mouth, signifying that at some point Louis had fallen asleep on top of him. Harry feels more rested than he has in days.

 

It’s three o’clock in the morning, and Harry’s been staring up at the ceiling since one. They’d played a show earlier and Harry had begged off straight after, went back to the hotel right away. He’s so tired, is the thing, has been all day, and the only thing he wants to do is sleep for a solid ten hours. He thinks maybe he’s coming down with something, a cold or the flu.

But he can’t. Sleep, that is. His skin feels vaguely itchy, not enough to actually scratch at it but itchy all the same, and his brain isn’t even moving that fast but he still can’t manage to fall asleep. Every time he closes his eyes his mind drifts, which is good, but it never falls past that haze of fog into actual sleep.

Harry’s so tired he could cry. All he wants to do is sleep and he can’t manage that, and he might actually cry.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. He rolls off the bed, falls onto the floor and doesn’t even bother pushing himself up, crawling over to the mini-bar and pulling it open desolately and grabbing a bottle of vodka.

It’ll have to do.

 

In the morning, Harry is bleary-eyed and exhausted. He drags himself into the shower in hopes of perking up a bit, and dresses unthinkingly. It’s possible that his shoes don’t match.

Harry stumbles out of his room into the hallway and immediately crashes into a warm body. It smells very familiar, very soothing, and Harry’s arms go around the person’s back before he even has a chance to think about it.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Louis asks, ready early for once, hugging Harry back. Harry means to answer, he really does, except somehow he manages to pass out standing up instead. Just for a few seconds.

When he wakes up, he’s hunched over Louis, pressing him into the wall, and he feels even more tired than before. “There’s something wrong with you,” Louis says, one hand settled between Harry’s shoulders and the other clutching at his hip. He doesn’t sound happy.

All Harry manages is a weak groan. He doesn’t have the energy for this.

 

“Maybe you have an iron deficiency,” Liam suggests. Harry groans from where he’s lying on the couch, one leg dangling down and an arm thrown up over his eyes to block the light. 

“Yeah, maybe,” he mumbles, shifting yet again. “What do you do to treat an iron deficiency?”

There’s a couple minutes of silence before Liam’s voice comes back. “It says that you can try changing your diet. Eat more iron rich foods or take some iron supplements. But apparently you shouldn’t take iron supplements without talking to your doctor in case you overdose. Which sounds bad.”

That does sound bad. “What foods are iron rich, though?” It’s worth a shot. Anything is worth a shot at this point. If this keeps going Harry’s going to actually have to see a doctor and find out if there’s something really wrong with him or if it’s all in his head. And he’s not exactly relishing that.

“Uh,” Liam says. “Red meat, pork, poultry. Seafood, spinach, beans, dried fruits, breads, pastas - ” 

Harry groans. “Stop, I get it.” It comes out cranky and irritable and he doesn’t mean to aim it at Liam, exactly, but Liam is the only person around to aim it at.

There’s silence for a few minutes. Then Liam prods at his shoulder, forcing him to sit up. Harry does it, but he does it grumpily, and only long enough for Liam to squish himself into the space before flopping back down, his head in Liam’s lap this time.

Harry means to tell Liam about the awesome fedora he saw on a guy out of the bus window earlier, but instead the words that come out are, “I’m so _tired_.”

Immediately, Liam’s fingers come to rake through Harry’s hair, giving him a scalp massage in only the way that Liam can. “I know,” he says comfortingly. That’s it, just _I know_. It’s different than the way Niall would have reacted, or Zayn, and it’s especially different than how Louis would have reacted to that statement, and right now Harry is so fucking grateful for it.

Don’t get him wrong, he appreciates the way Niall would react with noise and care, the way Zayn would react with careful scrutiny to determine the root of the problem, the way Louis fusses, but right now Harry just wants someone to hold his hand in silence and Liam is the best person for that. No one provides comforting silence like Liam does.

“Hey,” Harry says, reaching up to pat blindly at Liam’s face. “I love you, you know that, right?”

Liam’s sigh is much more fond than he would probably like to admit. “Love you too.”

 

Tour’s over in less than two weeks. Someone in Harry’s position probably shouldn’t be feeling grateful for that - touring is easily the best part of the job, and Harry loves it. Like, he really loves it. He loves being up on stage, singing to thousands of people who sing every word right back at him, loves the feeling of the music in the air, the excitement and emotions of the crowd. Every moment of it is a blessing Harry is lucky to have.

That being said, Harry’s so fucking grateful that it’s almost over. None of the other tours have been this physically grueling, this taxing. Harry’s been tired pretty much since the second it started, and there’s part of him that _knows_ that’s not normal.

The show must go on, though, and with less than two weeks to go Harry’s determined to just grin and bear it. He knows exactly how lucky he is to be where he is, and he’s never going to do anything to jeopardize that.

That also being said, it’s an hour until they go onstage and Harry feels like he’s about to pass out on his feet. The five of them are standing in a semi-circle around their tour manager, supposedly listening to directions - none of them really are - and Harry might actually fall asleep right here. On his feet.

Or maybe he’ll fall and hit his head on the ground. He’s so tired he’s not even really worried about it.

The meeting breaks up after a few more minutes. Their tour manager leaves, and Niall and Zayn start wandering one way while Louis and Liam huddle together and whisper about something, probably something awful that Harry will have to claim no knowledge of later.

His feet decide to take him in that direction without any conscious input from his brain. Louis’ back is to him, practically huddled into Liam’s chest from how close they’re whispering, and Harry really shouldn’t be here. For some reason he always ends up getting at least a third of the blame whenever Louis and Liam get up to their antics, regardless of whether he was actually in on it or not. To spare himself any lectures if he’s not in on the shenanigans he tries to stay very far away from it when it’s happening, and by the looks of it it’s about to start happening any minute now.

For a minute, neither Louis or Liam give any indication that they even realize Harry is there. Then, when it seems like their evil plotting has come to a finish, Louis says, slightly incredulous, “Are you _sniffing_ me right now?”

If Harry was a little less tired he would pull back. It is what it is, though, as Louis always says. “No.”

It would probably also help if Harry didn’t take a deep breath immediately after saying that. And if his nose wasn’t pressed against the back of Louis’ ear.

“Right,” Louis says disbelievingly. He doesn’t put up a fight when Harry leans more of his weight against him, only spreads his feet to brace them better. “C’mon, me and Liam are gonna see if we can get up onto the roof.”

He doesn’t give Harry a chance to refuse, clasping his hands against Harry’s and dragging him forwards by force. Harry takes another long, deep inhale with his nose as close to Louis’ head as he can get it, and suddenly, weirdly, feels much more energetic.

Maybe he’ll be able to get through the next two weeks after all.

 

“I think I figured out what’s wrong with you,” Louis says without preamble, not even giving Harry a chance to kick off his shoes at the front door. He’s standing barefoot in the middle of Harry’s front entrance, wearing an old, faded _Rolling Stones_ t-shirt he must have taken directly out of Harry’s closet and a pair of trackies he must have brought from home.

Harry sighs, toeing his boots off and dropping his keys into the bowl. “There’s nothing wrong with me, I’m just tired from touring non-stop for the past six months.”

He doesn’t mention that Louis has been tired, too, that he’d been practically comatose in Harry’s bed this morning when Harry had rolled out of it, and that had been after twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Louis shakes his head. “No, this goes beyond you just being tired, Harry. This has been going on for too long.”

He follows Harry into the kitchen like a lost little duckling, clearly unwilling to let the conversation die a natural death. Harry concentrates on taking a yogurt out of the fridge and digging through the cupboards for a spoon - Louis’ been re-arranging things again, it seems, always complains when his and Harry’s cupboards don’t match up because he can never find anything.

“Lou,” Harry says eventually, ripping the top off of the yogurt and letting it land carelessly on the counter, “don’t take this the wrong way, but please get out of my house.”

“Harry,” Louis returns pleasantly, hopping up onto the counter, “no.”

Christ. He’s the most obstinate person Harry has ever met, and he really should be used to that by now, but at times like this it gets underneath Harry’s skin like an itch that he just can’t scratch.

“Listen,” Louis says, reaching out and grabbing Harry’s hand, the one holding the spoon, using it to tug him in between his legs. Harry goes, but he’d like it on record that he does so reluctantly. “I think you’re a werewolf.”

Harry waits. Louis doesn’t add anything else, watching Harry’s face for a reaction expectantly. “Right,” Harry says. “Get out.” He takes a step back, or tries to, at least. Immediately, Louis wraps his legs around Harry’s back, holding him there.

“I’m being serious,” Louis says, threading their fingers together and squeezing firmly. “Do you remember that week when you were seventeen and like, obsessed with giving me lovebites?”

“Those were _joking_ lovebites,” Harry protests, abandoning his yogurt on the counter and laying his free hand over Louis’ knee. “You spent the entire first year we were a band trying to give Liam lovebites every time he turned around. I suppose that makes you a werewolf too, then.”

Louis shakes his head slowly. “It’s more than that,” he repeats. “We had a fucking _intervention_ for you, Harry, and after that something changed and you started putting your entire face in my throat instead.”

It was a joke, that intervention. Zayn had made a sick banner, and then they’d gone around the room reading somber speeches about how Harry’s ‘obsession’ with biting Louis’ jaw was starting to take over his entire life. There had even been sad, slow music to go along with it. The effort had been A+, really.

Hurt bubbles up in Harry’s chest. Louis has a habit of taking jokes too far, but he’s never gone this far before. Never started out with the intention of hurting someone. That’s just not who Louis is, especially not with Harry.

“I’m just tired,” Harry says for what feels like the millionth time. “This morning you were still dead to the world when I got up. You’re tired, too, I don’t understand why you’re acting like this.”

“And last night you fell asleep on top of me with your mouth against my throat,” Louis says patiently. “Normal people don’t _do_ that, Harry. Normal people don’t have to put their entire face in their best mate’s beard in order to sleep.”

“You’ve always said I’m not a normal person,” Harry says. The joke falls flat, tension hanging thick in the air between them.

Louis squeezes his fingers again. “I think I’m your anchor, or whatever. When you’re with me you’re okay, you know, but when we’re too far apart you get grumpy and moody.”

Harry forces a laugh. The situation is far from funny. “Think you’ve been watching too much _Teen Wolf_ lately, Lou.”

“You’re mad at me right now, yeah?” Louis asks, changing the subject abruptly.

“A little,” Harry admits. He doesn’t feel like putting the effort into lying, not right now.

“So tell me this,” Louis says, squeezing Harry’s hips with his knees. “Why haven’t you walked away yet?”

Because Louis is holding him there with his thighs, that’s why. Louis squeezes him again, cutting him off before he can answer. “Why do you _never_ walk away? Any time you’re mad at me you just stay there and huff about it until I let you smell my neck.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m a werewolf,” Harry says mulishly. Wants to move, just to prove a point.

Doesn’t.

“Okay,” Louis says, much too easily, and leans back for a second, leaving Harry blinking stupidly at him.

Then he moves, too fast for Harry to really see, and there’s stinging pain on Harry’s forearm.

A cut. Louis just cut him.

“What the hell?” Harry asks, flabbergasted. He drags his gaze up to meet Louis’, expecting an explanation or an apology or both, but Louis is staring down at Harry’s arm, clutching it with both hands.

Reflexively, Harry looks down as well, expecting to see blood trickling down his skin, dripping onto the floor. And he does, of course, except underneath the blood there’s nothing. No mark, no split skin.

No cut.

“What the hell,” Harry repeats.

Abruptly, Louis lets go of Harry’s arm and squishes his face in between his hands. “Yer a werewolf, Harry,” he says solemnly. 

 

Louis can’t be right. That’s what Harry keeps repeating to himself over and over, even as he answers the doctor’s questions on autopilot, explaining his symptoms with the occasional comment from Louis.

“And when did you first start noticing these symptoms?” Dr. Gerald asks, shining a light into Harry’s eyes.

“I don’t know,” Harry says helplessly, holding very still while the doctor examines his throat next. Something about it feels very much _not right_.

“He’s had them forever,” Louis puts in helpfully, swinging his legs idly from where he’s sitting on the counter. “Ever since I’ve known him he’s had this weird obsession with my neck. Is that because he secretly wants to rip my throat out?”

He doesn’t sound worried, only vaguely curious. Mostly he’s distracted with digging through the drawer he’s got open between his legs. Harry’s entire life is in shambles because he might be a werewolf and Louis is going through the doctor’s supplies. What the hell.

“Right. And when did you two meet?”

“I was sixteen,” Harry says, sucking in a breath as the doctor checks his reflexes. “We met auditioning for the X-Factor.”

“And you’ve been close ever since?” the doctor continues, motioning for Harry to lean forward so he can listen to his lungs.

“The closest,” Louis pipes up, holding a box of gloves up with a thoughtful expression on his face. Harry glares at him, mouths _don’t_ , and keeps glaring until Louis huffs and tosses them back in the drawer.

“Yeah, we’re close,” Harry confirms, straightening up as the doctor takes a step back.

He tries not to fidget impatiently while the doctor makes a few notes, humming to himself underneath his breath. “Well, we’ll have to take a few blood tests to be certain, but I think it’s pretty safe to say that you are indeed a werewolf.”

Harry blinks. “How can you tell without the blood tests?” he asks suspiciously. It would be just like Louis to go through all the effort of setting this up just to fuck with Harry.

“Aside from the way you popped claws when your friend was ruffling through my drawers?” Gerald asks blandly. “Just an instinct, I suppose.”

Well shit. Harry hadn’t even noticed.

 

While they’re waiting for the test results to come back - with a rush put on them because that’s what millionaire potential-werewolves do - Louis makes a game of randomly slapping Harry to see if he can get the claws to come out again.

Turns out he can. And, being Louis, accomplishing it once doesn’t do anything to deter him from doing it again. And again. And again.

It also turns out that it’s painless when they do pop out, the claws. And that they’re sharp. Louis nicks himself in his eagerness to touch them, tiny pinprick of blood welling up on the tip of his finger.

Harry can’t stop staring at it, at the bright red sheen of it, how perfectly round it is. He kind of wants to taste it.

“You sure you’re not a vampire?” Louis asks, waving the finger right underneath Harry’s nose.

Harry scowls and slaps it away. Fucking Louis.

 

An hour later, the results come back. Harry is officially a werewolf. And, as it turns out, being a newly minted werwolf means that he gets a recommendation to a doctor who can help him with all of his newfound werewolf problems.

Harry’s life, honestly.

 

“So how come we just started noticing symptoms now?” Louis asks. “Don’t most werewolves normally figure it out before they turn sixteen or something like that?”

Kathy, the werewolf specialist, nods her head. “Usually that is the case, yeah. Occasionally we run across werewolves who didn’t have any idea what they were for several years, though. They had an anchor before they even knew they needed one so it made the transition much easier, much less noticeable. They would have thought any differences were due to puberty.”

Completely straight faced, Louis looks at Harry and asks, “Do you think the amount of wanking you did when you were sixteen was because of puberty or the werewolf thing?”

Harry doesn’t blush often, not after all these years of invasive questions about his personal life, but he’s blushing now. He’s pretty sure his face has gone up in flames.

“Louis,” he hisses.

Kathy just laughs. “No need to be embarrassed,” she tells him. “Now that you’re aware of it, though, you’ll probably start noticing all of your werewolf attributes, the things you thought were just strange quirks before. It might take a bit of work but you’ll get used to it, I promise.”

Harry fidgets uncomfortably. Louis pinches his knee. “Tell her,” he says. “Or else I’m gonna do it.”

The only thing worse than Harry having to tell her is Louis trying to explain it to her and inevitably messing it up, on purpose or not. He clears his throat and slaps Louis’ hand away. “I’ve been noticing all these smells lately.”

“Smells?”

“Yeah, like - everything, really. Food, places, things. I can’t stop focusing on it,” Harry explains. Doesn’t say _people_.

Kathy says it for him. “People?”

Harry clears his throat again. “Yeah. Sometimes. Some people more than others.” 

_Louis_. He can’t stop smelling Louis.

Kathy looks between the two of them for a second. “Would you be more comfortable discussing this alone?”

“Yes,” Harry says immediately. 

Louis gasps, holding a hand to his heart. “Harry, you wound me!” he cries. “After all these years of having to put up with your weird quirks, this is when you decide to kick me out of your life? Low blow, Haz. Low blow.”

Rolling his eyes, Harry points at the door. “Out.”

Louis goes, clutching his chest and staggering dramatically. Harry watches him, unable to contain his fond smile. He’s such an idiot.

“I’m assuming it’s Louis you’ve been smelling?” Kathy asks, barely even waiting for the door to close behind him.

Harry clears his throat and returns his attention to her. “Yeah.”

“I wouldn’t think that would be a surprise to you, though,” Kathy says carefully. “You did tell me that the reason you figured out that you’re a werewolf is because of how you react to him.”

That’s a nice way of putting _because you bury your entire face into his throat on a regular basis_. Harry’s grateful for her tact.

“It’s been overwhelming lately, though,” Harry tries to explain. “It’s almost like this itch underneath my skin, yeah? Like I go a little mad when he’s too far away and my brain thinks I should be smelling him or something.”

“That’s exactly what it is,” Kathy says. “You have a distance problem, Harry. Your brain thinks of him as part of your pack and being unable to smell him makes your brain think he might be in trouble. It should pass given enough time, now that you’re aware of it.”

Harry’s still not explaining it right. “Right,” he says slowly. “But it’s not really like this is a new thing?”

Kathy’s eyebrows furrow a little as she looks at him. “Exactly how long has it been going on for?”

“Um,” Harry says. “About five years?”

Kathy’s face doesn’t clear. “Okay. We’re gonna work on some exercises to help you keep yourself under control, and once you’ve got a grip on that we’ll start working on some of the other stuff. This is a process, though, Harry, and you’ve got to be patient with yourself. Alright?”

“Alright,” Harry agrees reluctantly.

 

“How do you feel?” Louis asks. “Wanna tear my throat out yet?”

Harry sighs. “If I haven’t wanted to tear your throat out during any other full moon I’m not sure why I would now,” he points out. Louis hums and pokes at Harry’s hand again, for what feels like the umpteenth time since they got Harry’s diagnosis.

Is being a werewolf a diagnosis? Harry doesn’t know. Maybe it’s more of a condition.

“Do you think we’re gonna need to chain you up?” Louis asks, still poking at Harry’s hand. “Since you’re a newbie werewolf and all.”

Just for fun, Harry pops the claws out. Louis jumps a little, pulling his hand away. “You almost cut me!” he accuses, slapping at Harry’s thigh instead.

Harry pokes him with one of the claws in retaliation. “They’re not sharp,” he says, letting his hand drop down to poke at Louis’ belly instead. Louis makes a noise and jerks away, and in that second, that one tiny little split second, it’s like Harry’s instincts have taken over. Before he even knows he’s moved, he’s got Louis’ shirt slashed open from his nipples all the way down, the tiniest little drop of blood welling up just above his navel.

“Um,” Louis says, frozen in place, hands held half up in the air as though he’s not sure whether he should be trying to push Harry out of the way or not.

Horrified, Harry watches as the drop of blood wells, getting bigger. “Lou,” he breathes. “I’m - ” Sorry. Didn’t mean to. Doesn’t even know what happened.

None of that will suffice.

“You’re a freak,” Louis says, but he sounds happy about it. He brings a hand down to swipe at the droplet of blood, smearing it across his belly and finger. Holds it up towards Harry’s face. “You wanna lick it, don’t you.” It’s not a question.

“No,” Harry says firmly, batting Louis’ hand away.

“You wanna lick it,” Louis sings, darting forwards and waving his hand in Harry’s face obnoxiously. They struggle for a minute, each trying to gain the upper hand, and that thing that happened before where Harry’s instincts took over happens again.

Somehow, he finds himself on his knees with both of Louis’ hands gripped in his, laving his tongue over the mark on Louis’ belly. Cleaning it with slow, thorough swipes of his tongue, until the blood is all gone and he’s licking at clean skin.

Above him, Louis’ wrists tremble in his grasp. Not trying to pull away, more like a shudder running through him that he can’t stop, that he doesn’t _want_ to stop. He’s pliant to Harry’s desires, to whatever Harry would do to him right now.

Harry kind of wants him to _run_. That’s the thought that snaps him out of the weird trance he’d been in, letting go of Louis’ wrists all at once and falling backwards onto his arse, blinking rapidly. His tongue feels thick in his mouth, unable to form words.

“Um,” Louis says again, shaky this time. Not out of fear. “I think maybe - maybe you should go back to see that werewolf specialist?”

Slowly, Harry nods. He still can’t speak, still can’t find the words to tell Louis exactly how sorry he is, exactly how much he didn’t mean for that to happen. Louis just pushes, is the thing, and prods at Harry until Harry can’t help but push back.

Louis sighs softly, the dark wash of his jeans coming into view as he takes a few steps forwards until his knees bump against Harry’s. “Hey, it’s okay,” he says, stroking a hand gently through Harry’s hair. “I’m okay, see? You didn’t hurt me.”

Harry inhales a short, shuddering breath, nodding again. Chances a look up at the smooth expanse of Louis’ belly, the clean, unmarked skin.

Completely unmarked.

“What?” Harry asks, reaching up to touch before he can think the better of it. The skin doesn’t break under the pressure of his fingers, no hint that there had ever even been a wound there in the first place. It’s impossible.

Louis covers Harry’s hand with his own but doesn’t pull it away, lets it sit against his skin uninhibited. “Your freaky werewolf saliva must have fixed it,” he says, wiggling his fingers underneath Harry’s so he can lace them together. “So I’m okay, you see? You didn’t hurt me.”

That’s not possible. It must be possible, though, because Harry can’t think of another explanation for the unmarred skin staring him in the face. Other than Louis also being a werewolf. And Louis isn’t a werewolf - Harry’s pretty sure of that. There’s something about Louis that smells undeniably _human_. Vulnerable but not weak in a way Harry can’t quite put his finger on.

“Okay,” Harry says. It’s the only thing he can say.

 

He goes back to see Kathy alone. Louis all but threw a temper tantrum about it, insisting that he had to be ‘in the know’ and that Harry owed him after he made him bleed like that - which was like a shot to the fucking gut and Louis knew it - but Harry put his foot down. Had to put his foot down. There’s no way he can have the conversation he’s about to have with Louis in the room because as much as Harry would like to try to deny it, the truth of the matter is that he already has an idea of what’s going on.

A rather uncomfortably knowing idea.

“Harry,” Kathy greets, leading him into her office, “I didn’t expect to see you back so soon. How have the exercises been going?”

The exercises have been going fine. Harry has great control over himself as long as Louis isn’t around. That’s the entire problem. “They’ve been good, yeah.” He can’t stop himself from fidgeting uncomfortably. He wants to get the answer to his question but at the same time he definitely doesn’t want to get the answer to his question, doesn’t want to have to face something that’s going to change his entire life.

But he can’t keep going around putting Louis in harm’s way, either. Harry’s just gotta man up and get this done.

“I’m sensing a _but_ here,” Kathy prompts.

“Last night I accidentally cut him with my claws,” Harry says abruptly, the words rushing out of him. “I ended up - the cut closed like it wasn’t even there.”

“The cut closed because you put your mouth on it, you mean,” Kathy corrects.

Harry bites at his bottom lip and sits down. “I might have,” he hedges.

Kathy nods and folds her hands together on top of her desk. “The simplest explanation is that there’s a bond between the two of you which can heal a wound you inflict upon him, so long as you’re willing to heal it. You were probably desperate for Louis to be okay and your instincts took over to ensure that he was.”

A bond. There’s a bond between them. Harry isn’t trying to deny that, obviously there’s a bond between them, but.

This feels like it goes much deeper than just a bond. For years Harry has felt most at home in his own skin is when Louis is within reach, when he can just put his hands on Louis’ shoulders, his back. His throat. When he has Louis’ complete, undivided attention.

“So my saliva has magical healing abilities?” Harry asks. Knows the answer deep in his gut but needs to hear it said out loud anyway.

“It’s rare but not unheard of,” Kathy says, nodding. “For those with a mate bond.”

A mate bond. _A mate bond_.

“A mate bond,” Harry repeats out loud.

Kathy’s watching him, hands still folded in front of her. “This can’t have been a surprise to you,” she says. 

Harry inhales slow and even. “He’s my mate.” Hearing the words out loud cement the thought in his brain, make it even realer.

Louis is his mate.

 

The drive home goes by without Harry even noticing it. Somehow, his key is in the lock, twisting it open, and then he’s inside, kicking off his shoes and dropping his keys in the bowl by the door.

His feet take him into the kitchen by rote, the path he takes most often when he first comes in. His feet take him directly to Louis, sitting on top of the counter in a baggy vest and a pair of ragged pants, knees spread, holding a piece of paper between them.

_you and me baby ain’t nothin’ but mammals  
so let’s do it like they do on the discovery channel_

It startles a laugh out of Harry, one he hadn’t been expecting. He crosses the cool tile floor and drops his head into Louis’ lap, bracing his forearms against the counter on either side of him. Immediately, Louis’ fingers sink into his hair, combing through it gently. It feels good, so fucking good, has Harry panting open mouthed against Louis’ thigh.

“You know what?” Louis asks conversationally, tugging sharply at a strand of Harry’s hair. Harry manages a weak, feeble noise, knees sagging under him. “I looked it up online, the saliva thing. Do you wanna know what I found?”

He knows what Louis found. Louis tugs at his hair again. “It said that I’m probably your _mate_.”

_His mate_. It’s the reason they’ve been so connected for all these years, the reason Louis smells so fucking good right now, all soft, supple skin just begging to be bared, exposed. Bitten.

“You know what else it said?” Louis asks, pulling Harry’s head up by force, seemingly uncaring of how it makes Harry’s claws pop out, threatening to pierce the fabric of his boxers. “It said that you probably want to come all over me and then rub it in. Is it right, Harry? Do you want to come all over me and watch it drip down my face? My eyelashes, my nose, my mouth? Want to get me all filthy, make me smell like yours?”

_Make me smell like yours_. Harry surges up to his feet, catches Louis’ mouth in a crushing kiss, hauling him up off the counter at the same time. The inside of Louis’ mouth is silky hot, a little ragged from where he always bites at his cheek. He lets Harry in unhesitatingly, tongues sweeping together rough. Whimpers in the back of his throat as Harry tugs his lower lip between his teeth to suck at it, thighs flexing around Harry’s hips. He fits perfectly into Harry’s hands, lithe and strong, and he’s going to let Harry mark him up as much as he wants.

And Harry wants to mark him up a lot.

Louis is the one to break the kiss, twisting his head away to gasp for air. Undeterred, Harry bites at Louis’ jaw instead, sucking a mark there. Nice and deep and uneven until Louis has gone trembly in his hold, thick press of his cock obvious against Harry’s stomach.

“You already smell like mine,” Harry murmurs into the wet skin of Louis’ throat, nosing down to his collarbones to bite down there as well. Bumps into the kitchen table and decides that’s a good enough place to stop, lays Louis down without letting his mouth stray more than an inch from Louis’ skin. 

Beneath him, Louis arches up, rolls his hips in a way that’s decidedly dirty. “I know,” he murmurs right back, raking his own shirt up to bare his belly, exposing more skin. More sweet, delicate skin that deserves to have Harry’s mouth all over it.

Obligingly, Harry ducks down and drags his teeth over that sweet little curve, roughing it up in a way that must be a little painful, judging from the way Louis reacts, twisting like he can’t decide whether he likes it or not.

“Been marking me up with your scent long as I’ve known you,” Louis continues, hands threaded in Harry’s hair. “Want me - _fuck_ ,” as Harry bites him again, “want me to always smell like yours.”

Harry would reply to that, he really would, because Louis getting the last word means he’s insufferable about it for the next three days straight, but his mouth is currently occupied with tasting Louis’ belly button.

He tastes good there, too. Harry should have been doing this _years_ ago.

“Mm,” Louis sighs, so fucking pleased with himself, cock pressing insistently against Harry’s stomach now, demandingly. “Yeah, I know. Gonna give you a present, though.”

A present?

“A present,” Louis confirms, pushing at Harry’s shoulders. “Now get off me, you giant oaf.”

Harry goes, but not because Louis told him to. Because he likes presents and he wants whatever present Louis is going to give him. Not because Louis told him to.

Louis doesn’t waste any time, sliding off the table and landing on his knees with a thump, hauling his shirt over his head and whipping it over his shoulder. It leaves his chest and stomach bare, his arms, everything but his cock, basically. And Harry would love to see Louis’ cock right now, he really would, but if he can’t this is good too.

This is so good.

“You’re pretty,” Harry says stupidly, reaching out to smooth his fingers across Louis’ cheek, prickly with stubble. Louis snorts, undoing Harry’s jeans with ease and yanking them down to his knees along with his pants. His cock bobs out, fully hard and already wet at the tip.

“You’re totally gonna go all post-verbal on me and just keep growling about how pretty I am, aren’t you,” Louis says, wrapping the fingers of one hand around Harry’s cock and giving it a gentle tug.

Harry manages to brace himself against the table before he collapses, fish mouthed and panting just from that little touch. Wants to deny it, opens his mouth. “Pretty mate,” is all that comes out.

What. Louis has his fingers wrapped around Harry’s cock, Harry can’t be blamed for the things that come out of his mouth.

“S’what I thought,” Louis mumbles, stroking Harry again. “Always knew you’d be useless during sex.” He leans forwards, mouths at the head of Harry’s cock. Harry means to defend himself, he really does, but _Louis is on his knees_.

Louis is on his knees, spit slick lips brushing against Harry’s cock, chest bare, sharp curve of his jaw attracting light like nothing else. He’s so fucking attractive, smells so fucking good, and he’s Harry’s _mate_.

The head of Harry’s cock bumps up against Louis’ cheek, rubs against the stubble he has there, and that takes Harry right back to being sleep deprived and craving the familiar scent of Louis’ jaw, his throat.

Except now Harry wants to rub his cock all over it instead of his face.

“C’mon, big boy,” Louis murmurs, sultry and low in a way that shouldn’t do it for Harry like this. It is, though, it so fucking is, that stupid porn voice he’s using is gonna make Harry come, no question about it. “Know you wanna come all over my face, babe, drown me in it. Gonna show me how good you are at marking me up, yeah? Make sure I never stray.”

Harry grits his teeth and reaches down, grips his cock by the base and drags it across Louis’ cheek intentionally this time, smearing precome all over him. The prickle of stubble is rough against Harry’s cock, bordering on unpleasantly so. “Don’t need to come all over you to make sure you’re not gonna stray,” he manages, stroking his cock and dragging it across Louis’ stubble at the same time.

“Nah,” Louis agrees, tipping his head back to bare his throat, give Harry more room to work with. Harry takes it eagerly, smearing his cock all over the newly exposed skin, over and over, making Louis smell more like him with each pass. “But you want to anyway.”

Louis sticks his tongue out, laps at the head of Harry’s cock as it makes another pass over his jawline. “And you know what you’re gonna do in the morning?” he continues, blinking up at Harry slowly, lashes sweeping against his cheeks.

Harry’s gone sex stupid, thoughts of _mate_ and _mine_ tearing through his head. “Mm,” he manages, jerking himself off quicker. He’s going to come and he’s going to come soon and he’s going to come all over Louis’ face.

“You’re gonna put it in me bare,” Louis tells him, knocking Harry’s hand out of the way to take over himself, wanking Harry quick and tight. “Gonna stuff me full and fuck me ‘til I’m screaming with it, make me all wet and used, all your come inside my arse dripping out down the backs of my thighs - ”

He’s still talking, but Harry’s too busy coming to hear the rest of it. Mussing up Louis’ stupidly pretty face, strands of come clinging to the short, bristly hairs of his beard, dripping slowly down his cheeks, some landing on his slightly parted lips.

He’s gonna let Harry put it in him _bare_.

“There you go,” Louis says, laughing a little, still stroking Harry’s cock gently. “Gonna be so easy to figure out all your weird sex things.”

It takes a minute for Harry to catch his breath, so much more difficult with Louis still on his knees with Harry’s come dripping off his face. Eventually, Harry manages, ignoring the shake in his own knees as he hauls Louis up by his biceps to kiss him, still so desperate even with the pleasure of his orgasm coursing through him.

“In my defense,” Harry tells him between kisses, using one hand to yank Louis’ pants down his thighs, “you did just put your mouth on my cock. So.”

Louis makes a noise that’s halfway between a moan and a laugh as Harry curls his fingers around his cock, kicking his pants all the way off. “So you’re even dumber when you’ve got a mouth on your cock? S’good information to know.”

He’s way too coherent for someone who’s getting kissed within an inch of his life with a hand around his cock. Harry’s determined to change that - he’s not going to spend the rest of his life with Louis being better at sex than him. They need to be evenly matched or this is never going to work.

“Tell me about one of your weird sex things,” Harry begs, dragging his teeth across Louis’ jaw. 

Suddenly, standing and kissing and wanking Louis off all at the same time seems too hard. Harry lets go of Louis’ cock in favour of grabbing him by the back of the thighs and hauling him up, putting him back down on the table. Louis yelps and squirms, hard cock skidding against Harry’s belly while Harry busies himself sucking more bruises into Louis’ throat. The taste of his own come gets into his mouth but that’s okay, tastes more like them than just Harry.

“Nuh-uh,” Louis gasps, arching up and tangling one hand in Harry’s hair. “Not gonna give you something without making you work for it, you know me better than that.”

Harry does know him better than that, is the thing. Knows how to coax information out of Louis when he’s being too stubborn to just give it, and so what if that has never involved sex before. They’re _mates_ , really, truly, proper _mates_ , souls entwined, bound together. Harry’s gonna make him see fucking _stars_ when he comes.

“You want me to figure it out on my own?” Harry asks, shoving himself up onto an elbow and rubbing the fingertips of his free hand against the curve of Louis’ throat, shivering a little at the rough prickle of hair. “Just put my mouth all over you until I figure out where you like to be kissed best?”

“That’s what you consider - ” Louis starts, knuckles catching on a knot in Harry’s hair and tugging none too gently. Harry cuts him off with two fingers in his mouth.

Christ, he’s so mouthy all the goddamn time. Normally Harry doesn’t mind that, likes it even, but right now he wants to see Louis fall apart. Wants to see him get all shivery and shaky and plead-y.

Needs to see it.

“Suck,” Harry tells him. Louis’ eyes narrow like he’s not sure whether he wants to comply or not, but he ends up doing it regardless, cheeks hollowing around Harry’s fingers.

Harry’s cock gives a weak throb in response. “Christ,” he manages, curling his fingertips against the silky wet heat of Louis’ tongue. His own mouth throbs with the urge to bite down in response, taste his fill of every inch of Louis’ flesh for as long as he wants.

That’s what he does, ducking his head to bite at Louis’ left nipple. He means to do it gently - sort of, anyway - and somehow ends up biting hard enough to elicit the same force from Louis, biting at Harry’s fingers as though he’s the werewolf in the room.

He’s not. He’s Harry’s pretty little human mate, and Harry’s pretty little human mate deserves spit slick fingers stuffed in his arse, rubbing against his prostate until he can’t help but come, can’t help but smell like bone-tired satisfaction.

His fingers are wet enough. They have to be - Harry’s cock is responding to this. Not getting hard again exactly, just making the weight of it between his legs very obvious. “Your fucking mouth,” he says, slipping his fingers out of that wet little haven, down between Louis’ legs, making sure to allow them to slip over his cock along the way.

“Yeah?” Louis asks, gone breathless now. “Got me a pretty mouth?”

Harry’s not gonna dignify that question with an answer. Instead, he strokes those two spit slick fingers between the cheeks of Louis’ arse, over his hole. “Probably really pretty here, too,” he says, wishing absently that he could see it. 

Absently because he’s got the entire expanse of Louis’ mostly unmarked belly to work with.

“You fucking know it,” Louis says, hissing out a breath that, quite frankly, sounds more like a sob as Harry eases his index finger past the rim of his hole.

Nuzzles against the heaving plane of Louis’ belly, skimming lips and teeth all over his skin. “Baby,” he mumbles around his mouthful, screwing his finger in deeper, “baby, are you gonna come?”

Suddenly, he remembers that he’s got Louis’ cock in his other hand and starts working that as well, squeezing around the base before working his hand up to play with the tip.

“Yeah,” Louis says, chest heaving so hard he’s nearly knocking Harry right off of him. “H, I - ”

Oh, he gets _worked up_ when he’s about to come. Pleased, Harry files that information away to come back to later.

“’kay,” Harry mumbles, abandoning his mission of covering every inch of Louis’ skin with lovebites in favour of sucking his cock into his mouth, squeezing that second, quickly drying finger in beside the first. It’s probably a little too dry, maybe, but all Louis does is whine high in his throat and squeeze down around them.

He doesn’t stop talking.

“Fingers’re so big,” he says, slurring the words like he’s got his own fingers shoved inside his mouth now, taking the place of Harry’s. “Imagine how tight I’m gon’ be when you get your cock in me.”

Maybe if Harry’s mouth wasn’t currently filled with cock he would have a response to that. It is, though, and this sex competition thing that may or may not be entirely in Harry’s head is clearly tipping in Louis’ favour. Determined, Harry sucks harder, tongues the head firmly and crooks his fingers, searching out Louis’ prostate.

Knows he’s found it when Louis actually _wails_ , thighs clamping down around Harry’s head, rendering him half deaf for a minute, and comes.

He tastes salty sweet, come spilling down the back of Harry’s throat. Harry wants to swallow it all, he really does, except if he lets some spill out of the corners of his mouth he can wipe it up with his fingers later and add it to the mess already on Louis’ face. Before Harry can even consciously make the decision it’s already done, Louis’ cock starting to go soft in his mouth.

Reluctantly, Harry pulls off, giving Louis’ cock a sweet little kiss before he moves away. He deserves it, coming so nicely and all for Harry.

Harry shuffles around onto his knees, sitting back against his calves. Louis is lying there on Harry’s kitchen table with an arm thrown over his face, chest heaving, littered in bite marks Harry’s given him, two of Harry’s fingers still stuffed in his arse.

Playfully, Harry wiggles his fingers, licking his lower lip when Louis only clenches down around them feebly. “You gonna let me have my fingers back any time soon?”

Louis’ smile is so fucking gorgeous Harry kind of wants to cry. “Feels like they’re mine now, doesn’t it?”

Sweet cocky little arsehole. Harry loves him so much.

Bends back down to kiss that sentiment into Louis’ mouth, whispers it out loud just in case Louis has even the slightest little sliver of doubt. “I love you, I love you, I love you - ”

Louis knees him in the side. “Yeah, dickwad, I love you too. Even though you’re gonna get all weirdly furry at strange times from now on.”

Well, that just deserves some more snogging. Harry means to make that happen, he really, _definitely_ does, but Louis’ hand in the middle of his chest prevents that.

“Harry,” he says. Harry’s expecting to get told off for still having his fingers buried in Louis’ arse - look at that arse, though, who could blame him? - so he makes a vague noise, still trying to get back at Louis’ mouth.

“Harry,” Louis repeats slowly, “Please tell me that you’ve got something in your pants and you’re not just happy to see me.”

Harry just - doesn’t say anything.

Louis lifts his arm from his face, peering at Harry incredulously. “Are you _kidding me_?” he demands. “How the fuck are you already ready to go again?”

Helplessly, Harry shrugs. Gestures at the expanse of Louis’ body. “If you saw yourself in the mirror right now you’d understand,” he explains weakly.

Louis pushes himself up just long enough to give himself a rather dismissive once over before flopping back down, arms spread out wide this time. “Tell me that you didn’t turn yourself on by giving me lovebites.”

Okay, look. Louis’ got bruises blooming all over his body from Harry’s mouth, Harry’s come drying on his face, Harry’s scent all over him. Of fucking _course_ Harry’s gonna get turned on by that.

“You look like _mine_ ,” Harry says. It’s the only explanation there is, the only explanation that matters.

“Be that as it may, you can take that thing and put it back in your pants,” Louis sniffs, turning his head to the side, faking mad the way he does sometimes when he wants to make sure he’s got all of Harry’s attention. “I’m _tired_.”

His mouth is saying tired but his scent is saying _you can convince me_. Apparently part of being a werewolf is getting in tune with his instincts, and Harry is more than ready to do that.

This is still Louis, though.

“Okay,” Harry agrees easily, curling his fingers inside Louis’ hole one more time, brushing against his prostate before going to slip them out.

Is halted by the way Louis immediately squeezes down around them again.

“Fuck,” Louis says, sucking briefly on his bottom lip before letting it pop free, glistening wet. “Okay. You can _try_ to convince me. But you gotta do it in the shower _and_ you have to carry me there.”

“Do or do not,” Harry says, boxing Louis back in against the table, trying to get at his mouth, “there is no try.”

Louis knees him in the crotch. Harry yelps and falls right off the table, but it’s worth it.

Especially because his cock doesn’t even flag a little in the process.

 

Later, a whole lot later, Harry’s willing to admit that he lost the sex competition thing, if only in his head.

Louis is a fucking _spectacular_ lay.

**Author's Note:**

> [My tumblr](http://crazyupsetter.tumblr.com/)


End file.
